


Congealed

by PunkRoxas



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dark Magic, Gen, Magic, One Shot, Paganism, Wicca, black magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:41:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkRoxas/pseuds/PunkRoxas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do not mess with things you don't understand. Do not mess with magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Congealed

You like the way the rain has been falling excessively. It matches your mood. It quells whatever has taken home inside your veins, under your skin. It makes you feel a thrum just below your heart. And it stops the black vomit from gurgling up in your stomach and protruding out your mouth in thick globs. Sticking to the floor in a mass of tar and slimy coating.

When Jade complains about the lack of sunshine, it takes everything in you to not turn and slap her across her face. You’re trembling and the hate is pooling a hot heat in your stomach. She doesn’t notice. You like the rain. Then she asks if you’ve been sleeping lately and if you’re okay. As if you could ever hope to hide the dark circles that have taken refuge just below your eyes. As if you could hide the way you look as though you’ve been fighting an ongoing battle, color drained and dull. As if you ever had a chance of her not noticing the light rings around your arms on your skin. What is happening to you? What has happened to you? Even you know its too late now.

Your name is Rose Lalonde and it started two months or so ago. Who is really keeping track, though? It started when that new and unusual book store opened not far from your house. You’ve always had an unquenchable thirst for dark magic. The kicker, however, was that you didn’t believe in it. You thought it was far fetched. However, you were more so interested in what exactly caused others to believe in such a power. The human mind is susceptible to all sorts of wonderful things. You were merely interested in what enraptured others.

Perhaps that is what brought you to the strange, little occult book shop blocks from your own home. It was new but had the old musty magical sense to it you admired so. The tinkling bell when you entered, the smiling woman in her late 30s reading behind the counter and asking if you needed any assistance. “Just browsing. Thank you.” She watched you carefully for a few moments as your violet eyes glanced over the rows of books, candles and crystals. “Ah, you don’t know it yet, do you?” You looked up, the woman’s eyes still on you as you took a deep breath through your nose. “I beg your pardon?” She smiles as if she knows something you do not (Chances are, she does.) and simply shakes her head before going back to her reading.

With the choice to ignore her you go further into this unknown world. Tattered books, new books, books with titles that would send weaker people a jolt in the stomach. You don’t mind though. You feel easy here. It feels familiar.

You buy two books and three candles.

Its only a few days before you're back. The woman is smiling at you again and you're rolling your eyes. If she has something to say you’d prefer she would say it. You go back to browsing bookshelves and crystals. You buy another book, a gemstone and more candles.

Your dingy apartment is becoming rather full of candles at this point. You're fairly certain it says in the lease that candles are prohibited however you don’t seem to care. When hanging out with friends you always have a book. Books on creatures and spells, history of Wicca and Paganism and potions and gardening that is much more complicated then your average vegetables and flowers.

Your friends raise eyebrows but say nothing more. 

The seventh time you visit the shop, you pick up a book on summoning spells. You’re wearing a pentacle around your neck and you’re starting to get those dark circles. Lightly, of course. Thats what happens when you spend night after night on the hardwood floor of your apartment drawing shapes, mostly stars, and muttering to yourself. You haven’t seen anyone in awhile. You don’t intend to either. Its distracting and becoming an issue when you begin to talk to yourself at get togethers. You find it very tiresome, the way Dave looks at you. He probably finds it tiresome to worry. Though you are not his concern. Just as he is not yours.

When the sun begins to slip below the sky line is when your blood begins to stir. Its as if it is dormant throughout the day and the dark recesses of night cause it to begin pumping through your veins once more. The moon causing your adrenaline to up itself. The act of lighting candles occurs without thought any more. As least your electric bill has been fairly low recently. Perhaps its a gift.

Bits of chalk litter your floor. The remnants of a circle drawn the night before dusting your hardwood. Its a warm night. Warm is good. Your bent over the summoning book in the low candle light. Your reading the preparations over and over and whispering the incantation.

Tonight, as with many other nights, you will not sleep. 

The next day John and Dave are at your door. They want to spend time with you. They’re worried because they have not seen in you in weeks. You are quelling your rage at them sticking their noses in business that is not theirs. But you grit your teeth. You smile through the door and tell them you’ll be right out. You make yourself look presentable. You hide your shaking hands in your pockets and you keep silent unless directly addressed. And when you are you grit your teeth while you speak or more than words may bubble to surface. 

By the end of the night you have painted blood on your nails and John has deep scratches across his cheek. And just when you were starting to feel like Rose again. Wait…who? Never mind. You fill the bile rise up in the back of your throat and you shudder. Just as Dave is about to scream at you, he watches you stumble away down the street. He runs to take your arm and thinks better of it, letting John lean against him. Good, boy. You go home. He doesn't follow you but it doesn't stop him from attacking your cell phone generously. 

You ignore it in favor of more pressing matters. Instead of being hunched over your books and circles you are now hunched over the toilet in the bathroom. Black bile, similar to tar and molasses falls from your mouth, staining the basin and sliding dark rivets across the water. You haven't eaten in days. Even if you had, the liquid expelling from your body is not bile. Not from this world. Its too thick and coarse and dark. It feels like you've swallowed something and its stuck in your throat or pushing its way out from your stomach. 

You are through heaving and are now trembling and sweating on the bathroom floor. It feels as though the life has been drained from you. You’re weak and covered in liquid whose origin is unknown. You’re clutching your pendant, the apartment smells like seawater. Seawater? Yes. You have dozens of candles and none of them smell of seawater. Odd but comforting for some reason. You know one thing. There is no reason to call the hospital.

The week is spent going through bookshelf upon bookshelf of remedies and black magic rituals and even the expelling of demons. The lady behind the counter does not look at you with that all knowing smirk any longer. She is solemn and her eyes show pity. It makes you shake more violently then you already do. You’ve lost so much weight and your eyes are dull. You only notice because Eridan sees you on the street and his eyes grow wide and he tries to tell you not to meddle in things you don’t know about. You push him away without words because you can’t talk very well at all anymore. What does he know, anyhow?

You’re fine.

"Rose? Rose?!! Rose, open the door!! Rose?!!" 

 

Its been months since you’ve seen anyone. You're sure your throat is the same color black that the bile you puke up every night is. This morning you’re lying in the middle of a dusty chalk circle. Your candles have melted into piles of wax and there are more than thirteen books spread around you. You’re lying in the middle of all of this and also some of that. That is, black vomit that surely came from your stomach or whatever has latched itself into your being. It still smells like seawater and there are shadows of circles around the tops of your arms as if something had wrapped itself around and squeezed. Some of the black vomit is staining your hair and your skin. You twitch and move slightly as you hear the panicked voices on the other side of the door. 

"Rose! Come on! This isn’t funny!"  
"Open the door, I told you to leave it alone!"  
"Shut up, Eridan! Rose open the fucking door! ROSE!"

But…who is Rose?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick one shot I did for Rose and her love of dark magic. Spoopy.


End file.
